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+---- Thread: Heiress Loch take this sinking boat and point it home (/showthread.php?tid=11856)
take this sinking boat and point it home - Quentin - Mar 25, 2016
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice: you'll make it now...
- "Falling Slowly", Celtic Thunder
---
March 24th; Night; Partly Cloudy; 19 ° F, -7 ° C.
The Leader of Oak Tree Bend had surpassed his expectations; Quentin had not only been granted a home, but through @Sahalie's kindness, he was also given the opportunity to truly find himself, to find exactly what he was meant to do. The girl's suggestion of a pack Healer had given him the motivation to nurse the beginnings of a number of possibilities. After an evening of following the borders of his new home, his pace slowed as he came to realize that the forest of Umbra Copse was a whole different collection of trees. Gone were the ancient oaks and the occasional fir. Now there were redwood giants shrouded in fog, their tall and menacing shadows succeeding in blocking out most, if not all, of the moonlight in this part of Relic Lore.
He took care to drag his healed paw pads down the side of the nearest oak, then broke away from the borderlines. Even if he had only just been granted sanctuary, he wanted to feel wild and aimless just one last time - to say goodbye to the nomad he had become over the past year or so.
The cool wind whipped past his face in a gust, died down, then picked up again. It must have been an invitation; if it had been anything else, Quentin's feet might not have budged any further from the Bend. He had not even gone more than a few minutes' journey away when he recognized that sinking feeling in his chest, the hopelessness in his gut, and the tears the burned at the corner of his eyes. There was no denying it now, finding his little apprentice's family had been the right move. He could feel it in his bones, radiating through him eventually to a point where the helplessness was also erased.
Soon enough, the trees gave way to the edges of a Loch, its surface as gray and cloudy as the sky itself. In the daytime, it could have been a grand sight to see; in the night, it was dark and desolate. His tail curled at his heels and his right fore paw lifted from being overwhelmed from the emotions running through him. Without much thought, he raised his head and voice to the cloud-filled skies. The tune was sad, even lonely or implacable. In his tune and accent, the notes were warbled (comparable perhaps to that of a Gaelic-speaker's enunciation against an English-speaker's), but the message was just clear enough for the main message: That you never thought better of me was your loss... I'll prove you all wrong; I am so much more than you think... I am so much more. I never... I never needed you to prove that to me after all. He was certain his family within the Winding Weald was much too far to hear him, but to finally voice such a thing was a weight relieved from the imaginary knapsack he been carrying on his back.